In The Park With An Old Love And A Toy Poodle

© 2011 David Jasmin-Green

The rain is refreshing after all those hours
entombed in your flat,
a desert as dusty and arid and featureless
as the valley of the Kings.
Why did I come back -
To reminisce? To mourn? To gloat?
You know, I'm not really sure.
Or maybe I just don't want to say.
It's complicated. Hmm?

For a moment you stand so very still,
momentarily delaying your constant chatter,
looking down on your fool little dog with a hollow chuckle
and calling him bloody Twinkle-toes – shit!
Under the dripping leaves I know you remember
and possibly, just possibly even regret
dumping me, the goldmine that you foolishly discarded
one blissful summer's day
donkeys years back.

You can't cry any more, can you, Pink Piglet?
For fuck's sake, you can't even bleed honestly
without your mindless friends to monitor your every trite move
and the relentless hubbub of this cluttered metropolis
to dissipate and on your better days
partially camouflage your many coloured lies.

Your heart is harder still now, I guess,
pickled in cheap vodka and Kestrel Super and Thunderbird wine,
your mind is dead wood void and empty,
over-sated with meaningless sex.
You're gone, and you've neglected your talents
almost as much as you've neglected yourself.
Past your sell-by date, bitter,
shrivelled up and mummified by the central heating
you slowly desiccate in private while covertly
I hunger on for the you I once cherished.